


Cinders Light the Path

by MajorEnglishEsquire



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Flirting, Fluff, Hurt Sam Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-16
Updated: 2013-10-16
Packaged: 2017-12-29 13:42:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1006115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MajorEnglishEsquire/pseuds/MajorEnglishEsquire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Takes place a while after <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/996425">We'll Stay Together 'Till We're Ghosts</a>. Crowley finds his place on Team Free Will while they work to unbind Sam from the demon blood forever.</p><p>This is a Sam/Crowley story with background established Dean/Cas. Officially very AU post-<a href="http://supernaturalwiki.com/index.php?title=8.23_Sacrifice">08.23</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cinders Light the Path

**Author's Note:**

> This story does follow [We'll Stay Together 'Till We're Ghosts](http://archiveofourown.org/works/996425). If you didn't read that first, you will probably be pretty lost in places. Warnings for bloody Crowley and whumped/sick Sam.
> 
> I do not own the rights to these characters, setting, show, etc. No harm is intended.

One day Sam looks up from his research to see Dean and Crowley descending into the war room with boxes.

He grins. "You found it."

"We found it," Dean says. "Where's Cas?"

"Down in the range."

" _Alone??_ "

"He's just _cleaning_ everything."

"Oh." Dean drops his two boxes on the table and seems to be struggling with whether to head back up to the car for his bag or back down into the bunker to see Cas. He spins his keyring around his finger and then drops it in a jacket pocket. "You good, you alright?" he asks. At Sam's nod, he wanders off downstairs.

Crowley drops his two boxes off on the table next. Sam stands and comes around to look. "Is there more in the car?"

"Not much," Crowley says. "A bag of something that looks to be a rather large broken weapon. Or possibly an illicit Appalachian whiskey still. And a few half empty bottles of poorly-aged moonshine."

"Hm." Sam unstacks the boxes. Three of them are packed full of loose-bound reams of paper. They'd located another one of Bobby's backup caches of books. All of them are photocopies of the originals, long-lost or taken out in the scrap yard fire. They're pinned together with brass brads, hole-punched and arranged in binders, or even stacked and rubber-banded. The fourth box has only two binders, each sporting the logo of a different copy shop, and a black equipment box. It also has a four-pack of bottles. Sam pulls one of the bottles out curiously. Cane sugar sweetened, homemade ginger beer. "What's this?"

"Hmm?" Crowley looks up from where he's wandered over and started reading Sam's notes. "Oh. We stopped to eat at some, I donno," he waves his hand, sneers a little "dumpy little _dive_ and Dean said you liked that the last time you went with him."

It dawns on him. "Oh my god. The organic ginger beer from-- yeah," he reads the label a little closer, "this is the stuff they serve at Daisy's Barbeque! Um. Geeze. Where was it?" He's blanking on it, snapping his fingers.

"Tennessee," Crowley offers.

"Yes. Tennessee. I love this stuff," he takes the case out and heads to the kitchen to hide it behind the leftovers in the fridge.

By the time he's come back, Crowley has the case open and is eyeing the contents with subtle admiration. "Not bad." Inside are rows and rows of carefully packed bullets made of what looks like glass. The handwritten note inside details an account of a hunter running into a Fext near an immigrant population in Oregon. Rufus saved his ass by coming in at the last minute with glass bullets. He made some spare for anyone who might need them in the future and, it can be supposed, left them with Bobby. Sam wonders how well they actually shoot, but the Fext was successfully put down according to Bobby's note.

Sam starts to pull out all the books and stack them according to subject. But Crowley still hovers at his elbow. One of his fingers taps the glass of a bullet in the case, but he's staring at Sam.

"What?"

"When's the last time yo--"

"Ate," Sam finishes for him. Drops the book from his hand. Sighs. "Right. Uh. Breakfast?" he cringes a little.

Crowley pushes the boxes toward the other side of the table and moves around Sam to push him toward the kitchen. Sam goes quietly and, within seconds of sitting down, Crowley's already got the last of Dean's most recent homemade bread loaf out. He grabs the butter and drops both down in front of Sam. He starts eating while Crowley arranges some real food for him.

Sam doesn't feel as weak as he used to but he still can't stay awake so long and it's easier to hurt himself just bending to the same task once too often. Doing research on blood spells helps. But anything else feels like a lack of progress and simply drains him. Crowley is still in charge of trying to get him back to full power and he gets kind of _pissed_ when Sam does damage to himself. Though he should have expected that leaving Cas and Sam alone in the bunker for two and a half days would result in a little less herbal tea and regard for proper meal times.

Crowley doesn't force the tea on him until later, though. Instead, he leaves one of the ginger beer bottles in the freezer for a while and Sam has it with his late meal.

He doesn't learn until later that Dean didn't buy the soda for him. "I mean, I donno if he, you know, _bought them_ at all, paid money? But I said something about it and Crowley got them for you," Dean says.

«»

Dean lets Sam go on the next hunt because Cas wants to come with this time, is more confident he can be of assistance, and Dean's still not ready to leave Sam completely alone with Crowley. At the bunker, it's one thing. At most, he's never more than a hall and a staircase away. But out on a case, somebody's got to be near enough to help Sam. Also, Crowley can pop off to do little things for the case without drawing too much attention.

Though any demonic attention would maybe catch them some fresher leads on what Abaddon and her crew are up to. It's been suspiciously hard to catch demons slipping lately.

For now it's a 'shifter case near Dallas. Crowley doesn't like being in close quarters with Cas so it's just the three of them driving down. When they pick out a motel, Sam has to crash almost immediately. He's already in bed, eyes drooping when Cas silently reminds him to call and tell Crowley where they've ended up. He puts a hand on Sam's shoulder and presses his cell into his palm.

"Oh. Right."

"We'll be right back. We just want to see the crime scene while it's still fresh," Cas says.

Sam nods and Cas follows Dean out.

Crowley answers on the first ring. "Where are you?"

"Plano Inn--" he yawns,"-- room one-oh--"

Crowley is already there. He takes Sam's phone out of his limp hand and turns off his lamp for him.

"That was really fast," Sam says, already almost dozing.

"I was waiting for you to call. Took you long enough," he crosses the room and draws the curtains.

"Dean kept driving around and around and they forgot we need two rooms and then Dean wanted one closer to mine..."

Crowley is suddenly back after one long, slow blink. Sam had thought he was further away. His hand touches down, checking Sam's temperature.

"Perfect tep'ature," Sam mumbles. "Don't bug me."

Crowley huffs a laugh and says, "Hibernate, Moose." And he does.

When he wakes up, Crowley is on the bed next to him -- not on his own bed, mind, literally edging _Sam_ off of _Sam's_ bed. When Sam turns over to scoot away from the edge, he sees him reading on the iPad and sipping his Glencraig by the narrow light of the bathroom door that's been left slightly ajar.

Crowley has taken to losing the jackets, tie, and shoes when keeping watch over Sam. 'Keeping watch' being a loose term, of course. Mostly he sticks around and narrows his eyes at the financial news or reads books. If they talk, most the time, Crowley's still reading. Completely aware of everything around him, just mostly disinterested.

Except for when Crowley talks about Crowley. Or when he and Cas are staring daggers at one another.

Sam reaches over and turns Crowley's wristwatch. He doesn't put down his Forbes article.

Sam lost the whole afternoon.

"Dinner's come and gone," Crowley informs him. "You're gonna starve," he lies.

Sam groans and falls back into his pillow.

Crowley does look over then. Blinks.

"Of course, make a few more noises like that and you can eat dinner off of _me_."

Crowley doesn't like their random motel rooms with questionable standards of housekeeping and hygiene so Sam knows what comes next is probably going to be him grumbling about how he can't possibly do his damn job here and how awful it is. He doesn't usually whine about handling Sam's healing spells unless they're in a motel room and he has to improvise with hot water and combat the shoddy smoke detectors after burning herbs. He'll clamp his hands down impatiently on Sam's arms and forehead instead of hovering over.

So, no harm in shaking him up a little. It can't get any worse. Anyway, Sam's learned that there's a direct correlation between flirting and Crowley's good humor.

Sam groans again and presses his face into the pillow next to him, the one Crowley's propped up against. He throws his blanketed leg over Crowley's crossed ankles and groans a third time, drawn out and deep.

They don't move for a minute.  
Sam hears him set the iPad on the nightstand next to him.

"Proceed."

Sam laughs.

"You goddamn tease. Then try not to knee me in the dick when you get up."

"I don't wanna get up," he mumbles into the pillow.

"I didn't either, but the things that come out of your mouth, Moose."

"A little more concerned with what's going into it," Sam says to the pillow.

"I'm gonna fucking smother you in your sleep."

"That's one way to choke me out."

Silence.  
Crowley actually shifts, adjusting his position on the bed.

Sam takes hold of his wrist again, careful, wrapping one finger around at a time, just below the sleeve.

Eventually Sam lifts his head and asks, "Did we bring peanut butter?"

Crowley makes a disgusted noise. "Fine. Get your paws off if you're not gonna put them to any use."

It's actually easy for the next two days. There's no adjoining door so Crowley gets to be as bitchy as he wants. They trade barbs without Dean stepping in unannounced or Cas glaring.

Of course, Cas and Dean also seem more relaxed when there's no danger of anyone interrupting their nookie time.

The case goes largely as expected except for when Dean gets kicked in the face, knocked out cold complete with boot-print. Then, of course, _it's on_. Dean really hates shapeshifters.

Crowley only has one errand appointed to him: To pop out and check that a witness is still unscathed. When he comes back, he hands Sam a book on Slavic folklore. It's interesting but has nothing to do with the case. He reads it on the drive back to Kansas and when Crowley finds him in his room to start in on the day's spells, he tells him all the cool things he'd learned from the book.

He just babbles on and on. Crowley kind of makes the appropriate 'hmm' noises and then he's pretty sure he knocks him out so he doesn't have to hear him anymore because when he wakes up the next day his tongue is still a little useless in his mouth.

«»

Sam has to drag his old laptop out more and more because Crowley will hog his tablet. If Sam asks for the iPad, Crowley will disappear off somewhere else in the bunker and not give it back until he comes to harass Sam about drinking his spell tea or something.

One day when Sam has moved everything to the war room to spread out the research on the courtiers of hell, Crowley pops up and tosses down the iPad with a deep sigh. "I fucking hate Blogger dot com. I need something better."

"B-better? I. You have a blog? I didn't know you--"

"It's for statistical analysis of intangible property-based media investments. iTunes, Audible, social media accounts, cloud space, et cetera," Crowley rattles off impatiently. He just puts up his hands like he's done with all of it. "I hate having ads and the site is clunky. I just. I can't."

"Ooookay. Um. Have you tried Tumblr?"

"Tumbl _errr_ is for teenagers. No on Blogspot, no on Wordpress. I don't like them. I don't _like_ them they're so--"

Sam waits for it.

"Plebian. And unprofessional considering my content. I wanna," he motions, waves his hands senselessly, " _move_ the entire blog. To a space of my own. But I don't like anything."

Sam thinks for a minute, then pulls the laptop back over and opens his Gmail. "I've got someone. I'll ask if they can find you something-- or build you a site real quick. We'll see what they say."

"Oh, the pronoun game. That's original. So, who is _she_?"

Sam doesn't respond. Just writes an e-mail to one of Charlie's many anonymous accounts. He doesn't say so much about Crowley, just enough about his style.

"Where is it now?" he asks.

Crowley pulls up his blog -- _his blog_ , seriously -- on the iPad and shoves it over. Sam links to it, asks if Charlie can just move everything over and make it look like a serious, no-nonsense, industry site.

"Alright," he says, hitting 'send.' "Give it a few minutes; we'll see what she says."

"She's not gonna steal all my data," Crowley narrows his eyes. "I've been working hard on that."

"I doubt it. She's good."

"One of _yours_ ," he says, witheringly.

"We found her working for Dick," Sam says, pointed. "She's _that_ good. We scooped her right out of Roman Enterprises HQ. I'm sure she can handle your widdle blawg."

Crowley rolls his eyes and walks away. But the tea he brings back is some from his own stash, the good shit. So Sam knows it's a subtle kind of, 'okay, thanks.' He only takes one more dig at Crowley about his idea of 'fun' being starting a financial analysis blog.

It's easy for Charlie, the work of a few minutes. She only asks a couple more questions before sending the link, registration information, and a few instructions for how to update the blog and keep track of hits.

Crowley budges up, his knee knocking into Sam's as Sam walks him through it. He makes a few pleased little noises then claims the laptop from Sam and leaves the iPad for him to work with. Crowley stays warm at his elbow as he does his reading and takes notes. It's easier for him to ask questions of Crowley now. He asks about the knights, builds up more of their research. Crowley answers more directly, with less snark, distracted by his new toy. Already reading up to post his next entry.

There were only a few followers on the old blog. This one attracts more. You have to register to leave comments and by the end of the first day, the blog has already drawn in 56 users. It grows from there so Sam's sure Charlie did some Google magic for him. There are a few hundred people following the blog avidly by the end of the week. Crowley updates compulsively. Sam reads a few of the entries and they're so chock full of numbers and financial jargon as to be almost impossible to comprehend. What he can understand shines through as pure, 100% Crowley brand sneer and mockery. The comments call it 'acute' and 'vicious but insightful.'

Crowley is very serious about his blog.  
Which is a sentence Sam never expected to contemplate.

It's got honest investment content and becomes a somewhat respected financial blog. Sam sets up a Google alert for him and they track the links made to Crowley's articles. So Sam talks Crowley's ear off over lore and monsters and, really, a lot of things he already knows. Crowley, in his turn, doesn't shut up about Spotify's profits relative to what they pay artists. He's obsessed with the human habit of paying something for nothing in hand.

Basically they talk _at_ each other a lot. But it works for them.

«»

Sam can have some really bad days. It depends how the research has been going or if maybe he went outside for too long or skipped too many meals from the nausea. Driving days aren't great. Once they get to the motel or the bunker, he's sure to crash.

Crowley likes driving days because, other than kind of tucking Sam in, he stays home and does nothing until he's called. Peace and quiet unlike anything he's had in years.

The hunt for demons has gone stone cold. Big things are brewing below from what little they've heard. Mainly they don't hear as much because Abaddon and her newly-risen captains, generals, and majors are keeping the ranks tight, implementing discipline. Basically, hell has learned that cocky, know-it-all, loose lips sink demon uprisings.

It's making the Winchesters nervous and stalling their hunt for the demon(s?) who hold the original Campbell-Azazel contract which binds Sam's blood. Sam also had a setback when he ran to Dean's aid on the last hunt. Crowley had been chasing documents at an FBI field office so he wasn't there to advise against Sam stealing a car and flying to the fucking rescue. He got thrown against a wall and choked out by a witch, so Cas ended up doing the real rescuing.

By the time Crowley popped up, Cas had bound her quite well and was tending to Sam, who was completely crumpled on the floor.

He shooed Cas off to go find Dean under the guise of helping Sam, only to turn and slam the witch against the wall himself.

She had no idea what demon she was slowly losing her soul to. She didn't know the names were right there in the Latin of her spells. Couldn't keep her alive, of course, no matter what the bleeding heart angel said about it. So he snapped her neck and nicked her spellbook. Only then did he return to Sam.

The damage done, they just have to go back to doing twenty or so healing chants before bed time, frequent naps, broth, herb teas. Nothing else they can do but restart the process from scratch and keep trying to build Sam up stronger each time.

Sam totters around the bunker for the next couple weeks, bruised, dizzy, ill. Crowley simply offers his elbow and steadies him wherever they go. Sam clings so it looks like he might topple over Crowley given just one wobbly step, but Crowley is still stronger than your average human. His ability to zap everywhere hasn't diminished. He may not be able to crush windpipes from a distance but The Force is no match for the power he still has in his own hands.

Crowley can always be counted on to keep Sam standing.

Sam feels a lot better by the next hunt and insists on coming with again. He doesn't venture far from the motel this time, just to Starbucks as often as he dares, arm-in-arm with Crowley.

Crowley calls him "sweetheart" up at the register and all the baristas are putty in their hands for the rest of their stay.

Sam's arm loosens around his to elbow him the first couple times, but Crowley just looks up and gives him these big, innocent eyes and pats his hand lightly. "Come, let's find you a seat, love." At the pick-up counter, by himself, he grabs Sam's Splenda and invents their past. "Sick now, poor darling, but a world-class cheerleader back in university. You should have seen him in his uniform, the girls would melt, but he only had eyes for me."

Sam is not too weak to kick him when he gets back to the table.

While Sam does research and pretends to be Dean's section chief on the phone, Crowley works through the witch's spells. He lists out the demons named and their handlers, PAs, runners. The go-fers will be the ones travelling about, still running errands, even under Abaddon's dominion. Small tasks still need handling including active recruitment of troublemaking teens into the temptations of spell craft. Essentially, ensuring that as many souls guide themselves down instead of up, even without the benefit of active deals sealed on souls at a crossroads. There are plenty of earthen four-way stops in the world, but Amazon can deliver books about black magic to every doorstep in the world.

"Or the e-book for a dollar less with an instant download," Crowley says. "Not even a book you friggin' hold, no leaving half-desiccated leeches in your pages but keep that Kindle away from a boiling cauldron is all I'm saying."

Sam finally perks through all of Crowley's babbling about books 'literally made of air' (*fistshake*). "In all the time I've been hunting down witches, you know, I've never seen one with an actual boiling cauldron."

"Well, that's because we've all got electric kettles now. Me, of course, no, I'm back in the stone age with that ancient old steel beast I have to use on the stove in the bunker."

"Oh my god, we can get you an electric kettle. You could _ask_ , you know."

"Don't touch my kettle, Moose, leave it alone," he snaps.

«»

After, Dean wants to head straight to Vermont for a suspected vampire case, but Crowley insists that Sam needs to rest at home.

"He's alright. Look at him. You're alright, right, Sam?"

"He's _not_ alright and he's only going to get worse if you steer _towards_ the vampires and _away_ from the demons."

"Yeah, great plan, Crowley, but we haven't even seen any in weeks," Dean says, throwing clothes into his bag.

"I have names. I know where some of them operate out of. They could lead us-- you, they could lead _you_ to bigger fish. Reel them in and we start digging into their brains a bit."

"People are being killed right now in Vermont," Cas says, taking Dean's side on the immediacy of the situation.

"Put another hunter on it. Not every monster is your job to eliminate. Isn't it your job to get your _brother_ better, first?" Crowley glares at Dean.

Of course, Dean doesn't just want to concede.

Crowley hasn't winged anyone other than himself off since before the Winchesters locked him up in that church. He doesn't know if he can do it or how badly it will drain him, but he backs toward Sam and prepares to jump them back to Kansas, though that would likely mean Dean and Cas just go after their stupid vamp.

Instead, he digs the witch's book out of Sam's bag along with the list. He tosses them at Dean.

"Call another hunter on the vampire," he demands again. "You're going to be sitting in your car in Michigan waiting for one of Mammon's assistants to walk into a devil's trap."

"How?" Cas asks, doubtful.

"I don't care, figure it out. Head to Lucifer's old stomping grounds. They hide in obvious places, plain sight. These ones, Mammon's crew, they stay where you'd least expect them: Out in the open, where other demons have been found before. They know hunters never hit the same town twice. I am _positive_ you'll see something flash black eyes within hours of getting there. So you go on a demon run 'cause we're fresh out. Sam and I will wait at home."

"Okay," Dean starts. "Look, I'm not leaving--"

"Me and Sam alone in the blah blah blah. Guess what?" he backs toward Sam again and loops their arms, expecting a rough landing. "Tough shit."

And they're gone.

It's not as bad as Crowley had expected though he knows he won't be able to get away with it again until he's maybe had some, like? Sleep? He steadies Sam, then loosens Sam's grip on his jacket. "You're fine. You're home," Crowley says low, keeping hold of Sam's hand. They'd landed in the library. They leave Sam's bag there while they get him over to a couch.

"Well. That wasn't as exhausting as the car ride would have been, I'll give you that," Sam cracks a small smile after a minute.

His phone rings. He rolls his eyes.

Sam answers with, "I'm _fine_ , Dean."

Crowley doesn't care. He falls onto the couch next to him.

"Why? No. That's a waste of time. Look, Crowley gave you a better lead than we normally start off a case with. You know where to go, you know what's lurking there, and face it: We need demons. We have to find out what's been going on and get a better idea of who might have this contract."

He probably argues Dean out of coming back to the bunker to whip Crowley's ass after another half hour of yammering, but Crowley isn't awake for all of it. He falls asleep, for the first time in a long time, in _lifetimes_ , head propped up on his hand, sunk into the other side of the couch.

«»

Sam's awake already. He can tell.  
Just.  
'Cause.  
'Cause he can tell.

All thousand miles of his legs are hooked over the other end of the couch and his head is pressed into Crowley's side.

"This is uncomfortable," he observes, shaking pins and needles out of his arm.

"You were sleeping. It was weird. I tried to be quiet."

"Good Moose. I know how it pains you to shut that overlarge mouth," he reaches down and pats him on the head. "Are Frick and Frack on their way?"

"Yeah," Sam sighs. "To Detroit. They're gonna get some demons for us. We've been avoiding this problem for way too long. I can't lean on you for the rest of my life."

"Mm," Crowley acknowledges vaguely, now sinking his fingers into Sam's hair. Sam resets his head against Crowley's hip but doesn't move otherwise.

"You can't just click off so much anymore," Sam observes after awhile.

"Not with you. Not towing all seven tons of your glorious mane around, no," he tugs on Sam's hair for emphasis.

"This has gotta be driving you nuts. I mean. We've talked. I know you don't miss the stalking people and ripping them apart and being a total dickwad. But. You've gotta miss the power. You were King."

"Heavy lies the crown sorta thing," is all Crowley says.

"I miss things," Sam says quietly after a while, Crowley's slow fingers on his head.

"I know."

Crowley really does know, too. Sometimes when Sam can't sleep for the heat of a fever he really _doesn't_ shut up. Sam's room is their confessional. If only there were a drop of holiness between them they'd both be getting into heaven.

"That barista yesterday, with the curly hair? She looked like Amelia. That's what Amelia looked like. Kind of."

Crowley palms the back of his neck while Sam's hand finds his thigh and rests there.

"S'alright, darling," Crowley says, with no audience there to judge the endearment.

«»

Sam seems to get better a little faster. Crowley insists that this is the result of a lack of goody-goody, know-it-alls in the bunker. It's likely more a matter of having the promise of demons to interrogate about the whereabouts of Mary Winchester's contract. It also doesn't hurt that they really can laze about anywhere in the bunker without Cas's inevitable sniping at Crowley. Sam gets it, he really does, but they get loud and cruel fast. And he knows from all the time he's spending in Crowley's company that Crowley isn't so much the man he was before. The demon whom Cas is intent upon attacking no longer lives there. Maybe just gets his mail delivered.

Crowley is still dangerous, amoral, violent, and a little bit wicked. He just doesn't have any compulsion to be all those things at once, anymore. He's got no reason to attack anyone, no kingdom to save, not much to his name except his wit. He's not profit-driven. If nothing else, his blog is an example of that. Sam thinks he mostly set it up to keep track of the trends and all the information he's coming across and his thoughts on such. But he's not actually making any investments that Sam can see. He's just a little _obsessed_.

They're alerted to a major news outlet that basically cribbed an entire article from him simply by listing the blog as a source and using lots of quotation marks.

Sam slides over the laptop so he can see. He watches Crowley's jaw clench as he reads, quiet. His shoulders come up around his ears and then he skips back to the top, reads it again.

He stares at the screen after.  
Then scrolls down to read the comments. There are 14 pages of friggin' comments. Sam thinks maybe he should pull the computer away from him before he snaps the laptop in half and zaps off.

Sam scoots his chair closer to read over his shoulder. There are a lot of comments saying the article wasn't at all a thoughtful contribution to daily news and belonged in a magazine rather than on a news website. A lot of people criticizing the website, 'Slow news day, huh?'

There are a few other comments picking up threads of what was actually in the article. A lot of them agree or found the piece insightful. Others are trolls or simply showed up, bafflingly, to comment, 'And why do we care?'

"Okay," Sam pulls Crowley's hands away from the laptop on page 11. There are still three more pages and 36 comments pending approval. Crowley's hands are steel under Sam's palms but he does give the laptop back.

Sam squeezes one of his wrists. "Go. Go get a drink."

Crowley pops off for a few minutes.

Sam crafts a short e-mail -- tries to be polite about it, too, but he doesn't understand how a respected news source could just copy lines straight out of a blog without having at least contacted the author first.

But Crowley walks back in with his whiskey and his eyes narrowed and carefully shuts the screen in front of Sam.

"I don't care," he announces.

Sam just gives him a _look_. "It wasn't straight-up stealing, but it wasn't exactly ethical of them."

Crowley frowns, sips his drink, repeats himself: "I don't care."

He lets it go faster than Sam can.

He uses every ounce of his frightening focus, instead, on the demons that Cas and Dean bring home.

There are two of them. One Crowley says is just a runner, the other an actual personal assistant to one of the newly-resurrected lieutenant commanders of hell.

Dean and Cas relate the tale of their capture with grim pessimism. Most the demons in this nest communicated via text message and regularly swept their phones clean. They had to because the first orders passed down to them from Mammon were to cut the tongues out of their own vessels to prevent them from letting loose any vital information. They were a gruesome sight and all they had to do was destroy their phones to thwart the hunters who were after them.

A few had to interact with the human public; they kept their tongues and Cas and Dean ganked the rest.

What Crowley gets out of them is a whole lot of time travel chaos. So many of the higher ranks of hell had been depleted that Abaddon saw fit to return to her original time to bring forth her brothers in arms.

Crowley takes caution when illustrating the point that sets them reeling.

"Look. I'm not saying it's a _good_ thing, but you have to admit: If Azazel gets hauled back through time, we could have the holder of the Campbell contract _in-hand_."

Dean looks like he's going to spew at the thought of having to face Yellow-Eyes again.

He automatically changes their mission. They somehow have to find a way to lock the past. Make it impossible for Abaddon and the other major demons to travel back in time and prevent the deaths of their kin.

"Because, I mean, _best case scenario_? They _Back to the Future_ our asses and parts of time start disappearing because they lived."

"There is a more likely prospect," Cas points out sadly. "That all these knights and generals of hell were thought dead in the past because they had already skipped ahead into our time."

Ouch.

«»

Crowley is still sneaky, too.

The two demons give up all the information they've got. Sam, Cas, Dean, Crowley, they all try to dig for more, trick more out of them, and get nothing. It's smart. No single demon should ever know so much and their masters are a lot more brutal now so they know not to ask questions of their superiors.

When hearing about just some of Mammon's cruelty, even Dean has to admit that maybe the devil they knew -- Crowley -- wasn't the worst thing that could have happened to hell.

Crowley rolls his eyes and disappears for a while.

They're packing to leave, to follow what few leads the demons gave them, when Cas comes out of the bunker and up to the car.

"Sam. Dean," he hands over a sheet of paper. Dean takes it and reads first.

"The hell is this?"

"Instructions. The herbs and incantations that Sam needs for the next few days," Cas's eyes slide over in a way that looks concerned. "Crowley just handed that to me and said not to wait up for him."

Sam comes around the car and reads over Dean's shoulder. It's signed, **Try not to kill your brother. XX The Devil You Know.**

"Well where did he suddenly decide to run off to?" Dean curses and tosses the sheet of paper through the window, into the passenger seat.

"Perhaps there was a lead only he could follow," Cas offers.

"Not that _I_ heard. Whatever. Fuck him. We've got this. Cas, get your crap. We gotta get on the road."

Sam feels Castiel's eyes on the back of his head for most the drive. It's annoying. He's fine. He feels a lot better. He doesn't need Crowley to charge Cas, of all fucking people, with making sure he takes his goddamn vitamins.

Without him, they do find their way into another nest and these little bastards have tongues to wag. It's good stuff. The only one worth packing into the trunk and bringing home is a demon who used to be in sales. They moved him because he kept good records. So now Dean has a few thousand questions he needs answered on the filing system they keep downstairs.

When they get back to the bunker, Crowley's still not there. And Sam would be lying if he said he hadn't been calling, texting. He only learns that it never would have done any good when he shuts himself in his room. He unpacks his laundry from the hunt and separates it into piles as he pulls out his phone and dials Crowley again.

The drawer of his bedside table buzzes.

Crowley's phone sits there, almost entirely depleted of battery. Sam takes the liberty of deleting his 24 increasingly demanding text messages and the few voicemails he'd sighed into for a moment before the click.

Crowley left his good overcoat. They never exactly gave him his own room. He doesn't really need to sleep. Sam had only caught him at it the one time. So his jacket is hooked on the back of Sam's door.

Sam starts the laundry. He gets something for lunch and decides to settle in for a nap. But when he's got his bedroom door closed again, there's Crowley's coat.

He gives into it, goes up and digs in the pockets. It's all fine cotton and pressed black lines. Inside the pockets a lush, warm material. And nothing else.

He lets it hang.

Sam doesn't exactly deteriorate in Crowley's absence. He's held together a lot stronger, now, through the repeated efforts of the spellwork and a lot of time healing. He still remembers things he doesn't want to about himself as a kid. He still feels wrong. But much like the physical symptoms, he sleeps all that off. 

One day Castiel rattles him awake from an afternoon nap.

"Cas?" Sam yawns.

"Uh. Sam," Cas licks his lips. "Alright. Don't be angry with Dean. He's just being cautious."

Sam sighs and sits up.

"You know when you were sleeping yesterday and Dean said he caught a demon trying to sneak in?

"The one he's got strapped up in the range right now? Yeah, Cas. What--"

"It's been over 24 hours. And his story hasn't changed."

" _Her_ story, you mean?"

"No," Cas pauses. "Crowley. He's. Sam. Dean has him locked up in the torture dungeon."

Sam kicks off the sheet and gets up to pull on a shirt. "What the f-- why? How long-- I mean. What did he do? What is he saying?"

"I just thought you should be informed that Crowley is back as well. The demon said he was leading her in to kill us. Crowley insists he was leading her in to be captured."

"You believe him?" Sam asks.

Cas squints and his eyes slide back toward the hall. "I actually do," he admits after a moment. "I've been charged with keeping an eye on him. He's been asking for you.

Sam goes to push past him, and pauses, shaking his head.

"Uh. Look. Don't-- don't refer to the dungeon as a 'torture dungeon' in casual conversation, Cas, it sounds totally fucked up."

Cas frowns and cocks his head and Sam doesn't have time for it. He heads downstairs.

The keys to all the chains and cuffs are on the wall outside the door. Sam grabs them and heads in.

The chain on the collar around Crowley's neck is short. He's strapped to the floor on his knees and he can basically only look down between them.

At the sound of the door, he attempts to look up and it doesn't work. He's bleeding from all over, scraped raw and slashed at, his clothes a mess, his _face_ a mess from what Sam can see. The chains clink as he tenses but when Sam's bare feet come into view, he breathes out the single syllable of his name in relief.

"It wasn't-- I wasn't trying to draw her in to kill you, I swear," he starts. "She gave me one opportunity to prove what I was saying and I expected you and Dean to be here to haul her in. I was being as obvious as--"

"S'okay," Sam kneels down next to him and puts a hand on the back of his neck. "Hold still, alright?"

Sam runs through a few different keys trying to get all the locks and chains off, but with each one Crowley very carefully does not move. He stays exactly where he is until Sam puts a hand to his chest and helps him stand. Crowley grips his fingers into Sam's t-shirt and looks up at him through the blood.

"Okay," Sam nods and decides to lead Crowley off in the direction of the nearest first aid kit.

He trips on his feet a few times. It's a switch from all the supporting he used to do for Sam.

The gym is near here and down the hall, far and opposite from the gun range where Dean is working on the other demon.

Sam grabs the kit and pulls Crowley over to the benches in the shower room. There he's able to turn on a sink and clean most the blood off his face first. Sam straddles the bench beside him and pulls out alcohol, swabs, bandages. The story comes out of Crowley one piece at a time. He thought he had something, thought he knew where one of the higher ranking demons would be. If Baal were resurrected, she might return to her old stomping grounds in New Orleans. He'd tracked her down, convinced her that he had no other choice, had to get back into hell's good graces, and that he'd give her a great prize to present to Abaddon: The Winchesters. He'd said nothing of the deadly little ex-angel they also kept on hand and it was mostly Cas who got the drop on her while Dean focused his wrath on Crowley who hadn't been lurking in nearly enough shadow.

Crowley holds his own nose between both hands and cracks it back into place, an awful sound. Sam just handles his face around again and keeps mopping him up.

"You've gotta believe me, Sam. I know Dean won't, but you've got to. I mean. I know you don't have to. I know I could have said something, to you, especially, but I thought it would go nowhere, really. I hadn't the faintest idea it would actually work, I had to draw her in fast, then and--"

Sam stops him, wiping the blood off his cracked lips with a cloth. Then he just holds Crowley's chin still and says, "It's okay. You're not going back in the chains. I didn't know Dean had you in them."

He shrugs, swallows. "Yeah. I figured."

"Cas just told me. I would have come sooner--"

Crowley yanks Sam in and kisses him full on the mouth.

"What... did you just do?" Sam asks, stilted, all close and wide-eyed.

Crowley narrows his eyes and releases Sam to smack the back of his head. "That wasn't a deal if that's what you're asking." He climbs off the bench and starts walking away.

Sam catches him, yanks him back over by his shredded sleeve. "Sit. Shut up."

Crowley lets Sam scrub the gouge on the back of his head. "I should stitch this," Sam says, prodding lightly at it.

"Leave it," Crowley bites out, but amends after a moment, "give it a while. It'll close up on its own now it's clean."

He goes in for Crowley's knuckles next.

"Was this her or Dean?" he asks.

"Baal. And her pets. Unfortunately, they know I'm alive and that she followed me somewhere. They don't know enough, though."

Wow. Sam blinks and tries to focus on mopping up more of the blood. "She could have just as easily killed you as you brought her here."

"I'm aware of that. Look, I tried to get your meathead brother to listen but I doubt he heard a word: I told her I was showing her the bunker so she could bring others back and lay siege. I told her it was a onetime shot for me to show her. I guarantee no one else followed us here," he insists.

"I believe you," Sam says, before he can go on. "I believe that you know they wouldn't let you live after you gave them that information. I know you're smart. She just thought you were desperate enough to pull one, final, stupid move. I believe you," he repeats. "I'm not dumb enough to think you've changed completely but I know a lot more about how you work," Sam says quietly. And once more: "I believe you."

A lot of tension drops out of Crowley, then. He nods. "Good."

When he finally looks back at Sam, it's with a critical eye. "Cas did everything you told him to," Sam answers the unspoken criticism.

"I know. But he doesn't have my kind of mojo."

"I know. And he's great at coffee but he sucks at tea."

"Gimme a while, Moose. I'm not ready to stand over boiling water when your brother could so easily plant my face onto the stove coil."

"I'll handle Dean."

And he does. In the half-light of the kitchen, they stand together over the kettle. Sam stays beside him. Later, they're drinking and eating at the table, Crowley detailing the ordeal and Sam watching his wounds zip right up, pinking and healing before his eyes. When Dean walks in, wiping the other demon's blood off his knuckles, Sam greets him, appearing pleased.

"So Crow was just telling me about the demon he picked up for us," Sam grins as if oblivious to the disturbed air about Dean.

"C-- _Crow?_ " Dean asks glaring at the back of Crowley's head.

Across the table, Crowley's got his chin angled down to his chest, wide-eyed and stock still.

"Did she tell you anything yet?" Sam asks.

"Uh. Right. No. Not yet. Cas is working on her. Maybe," Dean frowns, points, " _Creepy Crawley_ here should give it a shot. He was supposedly _all about_ roping her in--"

"Hey, Dean?" Sam stops him. "That's great. You should probably get back to it."

Dean shakes his head like, _fucking excuse me?_

"You should move her down to the dungeon, you know, because Crow won't be needing it and she's an _actual demon_ and all."

Dean takes a stunned step back. "Look, I was gonna tell you all about what happened when you woke up and--"

"Yeah, Cas got around to telling me first. So. You missed that one. Try harder _to tell me the truth_ next time." Sam drops his eyes back to his pretzels and peanut butter and eventually Dean stomps away.

"Moose and Crow," is the first thing Crowley mumbles after a while. Then, "I'm surprised he didn't decide to slam that blade down into my skull just now."

"He won't, Crowley."

"Aw, what happened to my pet name? I've been such a good bird," he grins.

"Pretty bird," Sam chucks a pretzel at him.

«»

A couple months later and progress is good. They've got names. They're closing in on the demons who still possess a little part of Sam, the part that needs to be separated from hell so they can cleanse his blood for once and for all. So they can put the trials behind them and focus on countering the demons who show in force.

Things are so good, in fact, that Cas drops in on Crowley in his quiet corner of the library and tries to give him a lecture on how dangerously attached he thinks Sam is getting. Crowley tunes him out easily while replying to comments on his blog.

What's more delightful is that the nickname sticks. And for every time Dean calls him 'Creepy Crawley' Sam calls him 'Crow' a dozen more.

Factoring in Sam's almost _robust_ health, things seem to be going swimmingly, indeed.

So, Crowley is understandably worried when he enters the kitchen one day to find Sam suspiciously eyeing all of his surroundings. The coconut chai tea he's brewing, the iPad and laptop sitting next each other on the table, the potted sage that sits under the ever-lit stovelight, the moose-horned coffee mug he uses nearly every day. He's chewing half a peanut butter cookie when Crowley walks in.

He just stands there and observes Sam. Quite obviously Deep Thoughts are happening. He dare not disturb the giant's delicate consciousness. He thinks to say as much when Sam finally speaks up, knowing he's there without looking.

"Why did you get me this?" he turns the moose mug in his hand.

Crowley doesn't know what to say except the truth, doesn't know what Sam's looking for. "Dean and I drove to Maine that one time, remember?"

"Yeah, but why?" he looks over at Crowley.

He shrugs. "I was thinking of you."

Sam blinks.

" _What?_ " this is kind of freaking Crowley out.

Sam points to the potted herb and the tea tin with the cookie that's still in his other hand. "You were thinking of me."

Crowley just throws up his hands, at a loss.

Thus it was inevitable that things would go bad. Sam side-steps around him for a few days, until they're on a hunt over in Colorado. Probably a ghost going dark side, boiling into little fits of ectoplasm. Sam goes out on more of the hunts but Dean and Cas are being insufferable today with their touchy-feely bullshit and Crowley and Sam both elect to hang behind and let them handle it.

Crowley comes back to their motel room after a coffee run and only then realizes he's done it again. You see, there was this caffeinated gum that Sam loved which got discontinued at all the places he had looked. Crowley saw this specialty candy store in town and struck gold. They had a case of the stuff and he made off with all of it.

When he dumps the bag on Sam's bed, Sam is still in the shower. Crowley actually thinks about throwing it all out, but decides to take the uptick in weirdness with stoicism rather than admitting he's done something wrong again.

Sam walks out dressed, toweling and tossing his ridiculous hair dry. "What's this?" he digs through the bag and positively bursts with delight. "What the-- how the _fuck_ did you find this, Crow, holy shit."

Crowley steadily ignores him. Watches the local news. Tries not to look over. Sam gushes on and on, thanks him. He just shrugs, but only barely, eyes trained on the television.

"Crowley," Sam says. And again, when he approaches Crowley's bed, touches him on the shoulder. "Hey. Thank you."

He frowns, shakes his head. "It's nothing. I just. Saw it."

Sam's quiet before he asks, "You were thinking of me?"

 _Sweet sister sin, here we go again,_ Crowley thinks, and cringes.

But now Sam sits next to him on the end of the bed, knocks his knee into Crowley's. "Hey, Crow?" he calls, quietly. And he can't not, so he looks over. Sam's still beaming. "Thanks."

Crowley only shakes this non-committal nod and attempts to look back at the television before Sam has scooped the side of his face toward him and plants a kiss on the side of his nose.

Crowley feels his right eye twitch beside the pad of Sam's forefinger. Then he feels Sam dip to kiss him on the mouth and is positively insensate for the rest of it. He has to be because there's no other way he'd end up curled in Sam's lap clinging to his damp hair and tasting him that deeply.

They're Fabio-romance-novel hooked around each other by the arms, complete with that luxurious head of hair. During the moments when Sam has to pull back to breathe he asks, "You're really thinking about me all the time?"

"The hell else have I got to do?" he motions to Sam's sheer size. "You're everywhere."

«»

Sam is the tame sort, cautious, so Crowley follows his lead. He's not keen on getting decapitated by the elder Winchester, anyway, so there's also _that_ to avoid.

Dean's not dumb, though, and when he nails Crowley staring at Sam's ass for the third time in a week, unrepentant, he has a full-on bitchfit that Sam has to step in front of. Crowley only shrugs at Dean and slowly smiles. Dean... doesn't appreciate that. Cas just sits back and watches, probably hoping Dean will finally snap and get rid of Crowley for once and all.

What Sam takes away from it is warmth, not worry. Crowley will flirt with anything that moves but when he feels his eyes on him like that, Sam thinks Crowley's legitimately _turned on_ by him.

That kind of turns _Sam_ on, to be honest.

Otherwise, they stick close. Like normal.  
The endearments Crowley lavishes upon Sam sicken Dean. Like normal.  
Cas has the occasional inspiration to steal his friend back to read books and do research and all that shit with Sam. Like normal.

But, now, sometimes he has to stick with his loverboy. Because he loses. And Crowley throws his legs over Sam's on the couch and hogs his laptop and the volume of Cas n' Dean's whining can't drown out the thrill of Sam seeking to touch him.

«»

When they finally fuck Sam slips into him and Crowley lets loose with this verbal deluge of love and nonsense, praises and curses. It's kind of wonderful. He shouts into Sam's mouth and moans, _moans_ , moans forever. They hiccup out sometimes when Sam ratchets up the speed or touches him someplace new. He keeps Crowley's knees hooked over his shoulders and leans over him with one hand. The other strokes down his thigh to the crease and then over his balls and Crowley seriously doesn't stop saying "I love you" until he stops touching him there.

He wants to hear more of this insanity so he runs his fingers everywhere until his arm shakes and he needs both for support. "My dar--my darling, my Moose, Sam. SAM. Fuck. Sam. Sam."

With both fists curled tight into the sheets he can slam harder, fuck faster. Crowley's own voice shuts down half-way through a shout and he clutches at Sam's head and drags him down to kiss, won't let go. When Sam cries out into his mouth, it makes him come, messy between them. "Yes. Yes. Fucking yes," he says as his spine eases down and he becomes boneless. "Finish. Fuck me. Come for me, darling." He runs his fingers through Sam's hair, pulls him down. Whispers harsh in his ear. "Come for me. Now. Come for me, love. H-hard, love. Now. Yes, _fuck_." Sucks at Sam's mouth and he thinks his lip is bleeding but he doesn't care. Crowley drinks him in, holds tight. Sam thinks he hears, "I want this," but can't really tell over the sound of the galaxy stopping, the fucking stars imploding.

He hangs still over Crowley for as long as he can until Crowley kind of goes liquid underneath him. He slides out and Crowley sighs deep. "Dear god you're.... proportional."

Sam laughs into his chest and when he tries to roll away, Crowley doesn't let him go. He hangs on and kisses into his mouth again until Sam's really, really very tired. He falls to the side and Crowley keeps going. Sam lets him.

And wakes up to Crowley riding him.  
He doesn't know how much time has passed but he hopes it hasn't been long enough for Dean and Cas to get back to the bunker because Crowley's building up to shouting again. Sam grabs his thighs and fucks _up_ hard, finding a different "I love you" button, listening to him lose his senses all over again. It feels kind of absurd but when Sam puts that aside for a second and thinks about believing it, he wants it more. Is able to pull Crowley closer and wrap a hand around him, rock an orgasm out of him that has him losing his voice mid-shout again.

Every muscle Crowley can still operate at that point works to draw Sam to the end including his fucking mouth. "You bloody, huge, beautiful bastard," he says, "sweetheart, darling, love, you have to fuck me. Oh, fuck, I love you. What the hell are you. I can't fucking believe this," he steadies his hands again on Sam's chest and screws down onto him. "Or go ahead and hold out on me, I can do this forever," he babbles. "Sweetheart let me feel you come."

Holy shit, that's it. He gives it up and lets Crowley fall on him after, kissing and trying to keep Sam under him, exactly where he is. He loses it, won't stop clinging.

"This is awful," he finally complains when he detaches himself. "How dare you."

"I'm the one who woke up with you on top of me," Sam points out.

Crowley looks over and down at him. "I mean how dare you all of that. What am I supposed to do," he motions to all of Sam. "Just ignore that?"

"You like it."

"I love it," he responds. Which is disconcerting because Sam's not inside of him at the time.

"Have to get you better faster. I've got a lot of complicated positions on the list."

"God, there's a _list_."

"Obviously."

Sam decides it's time to find out what would happen if he tried to make Crowley cuddle so he draws him in and clamps around him with arms and legs, Crowley's back tight to his chest.

More alarming.  
Crowley doesn't do anything except snuggle his ass closer.

"I'm getting worried," Sam finally admits aloud.

"You think too much. I keep you around for your looks."

"Uh. You're pretty, um. Enthusiastic. In your praise."

"I've grown attached. I've got your mad Winchester blood to blame. 'S your fault."

"I don't. Crowley. I don't love you."

"Mm."

They're quiet for a while. "Actually that hurts quite a bit. Interesting." But he doesn't try to crawl away, out of Sam's arms.

It makes Sam want to say that he lied.

«»

Crowley stays close and keeps things _just_ this side of impropriety when Dean is around.

Sam turns out to be the problem.

He's enthralled with the noises Crowley makes. With the way he touches and waits to be touched. Crowley soaks it in, everything Sam offers him. It doesn't seem to bother him what Sam _doesn't_ offer.

That's what Sam needs right now. He always wants to be close to people, been waiting forever to have someone as eager for his attentions. But after a lifetime of burns, of leaving people behind when he really loves them or losing them horribly, he needs to be able to keep his doubts about Crowley, who was, after all, a pure, power-driven psychotic before the night of The Fall, before the night Sam and Dean strapped him down in the church.

But deep in himself, he's compelled to give more. With Ruby he did lust and need. With Amelia, need and love and companionship. With Jess it had been about love and building and simply _knowing_ one another, bone-deep.

Strangely, with Crowley? It's about _romance_ and _care_. Of all _fucking_ things.

There's not a whole lot of Give A Fuck left in Crowley since he's been relieved of that heavy crown. But, from the day of The Fall, Crowley's had his hands in Sam's insides and been tending him carefully. It was a connection established in their blood, it really was, and in the time they spent drawing Crowley closer and closer to human.

The romance is overblown and borderline ridiculous. But Crowley's favorite hobby is flirting, favorite meal is a good flirt, favorite cocktail is a drink and a flirt, favorite hour of the day is dirty, dirty, lewd and lovely _flirting time_. When he can't stop thinking about his favorite toy to flirt with, he does ludicrous things like buy him potted herbs and moose mugs and accidentally admit he can't stop thinking about him. Thus the romance.

Sam tries his hand at it and thinks he's making progress. But what do you give the ex-demon in your life who could literally steal anything he wanted at any moment from anywhere in the world?

So, when Cas finally walks in them having a bit of a snog while the kettle boils, Sam only shrugs and sweeps his hands soothingly down Crowley's back.

When Castiel informs Sam that he didn't say anything to Dean, Sam lures his brother out of the bunker on a warm day to a springtime ball game and tells him he'll just have to deal with this new development.

When that doesn't work, he and Crowley get out of town for a few days.

And, yes, the fucking is heated, excellent, _endless_ while they wait to return.

They do. Dean has grown positively murderous but of course he can't possibly kill Crowley in his sleep and the yelling eventually quiets back down to the standard dark muttering.

Finally, when Sam gets back from now-mandatory Brother Time with Dean each week, he comes up to his chair in the library, turns it, and steps between Crowley's knees. He bends to kiss him deep and says, "I was just thinking about you."

«»

Hunters everywhere have been well informed about the demon cleansing that the Men of Letters developed. Dean and Sam and Cas dutifully passed on word of it to anyone who would listen.

Hunters everywhere are also, individually, quite informed about who Crowley used to be.

This is Sam's first thought when Crowley disappears during a hunt and doesn't return for two days. His cell phone is with him but soon the service to it cuts out. He didn't leave a note for Sam or warn Dean or Cas to look out for him like he's still in the habit of doing. He kept his jacket. Didn't leave it anywhere Sam could find.

Dean gets away with being callous about it for half a day before Sam's so frantic he starts to have visions of post-trial Sam, sallow, wounded, shaking, vomiting.

Dutifully, he chooses to pick up Crowley's trail as soon as Cas calls to confirm that their werewolf of the week is dead.

There aren't many other hunters who frequent the Nevadan desert. But for those who are used to it, there are vast expanses to drag a demon off to. Or burn and leave the ashes in the sand.

They split up, Dean revving down the main highways, Cas roving the desert in a stolen, sturdy SUV, and Sam working the nearby town on foot. The whole thing. In a goddamn grid.

Dean's about to check in, call Sam with his whole lot of _nothing_ when Sam calls him first. Dean begs him to wait for back-up before he hangs up and calls Cas to get him back into town.

Earl Reed is a wiry, feisty little shit. A real bottom-feeder as far as hunters go. Sam knows it's him and knows where he is and he's pretty sure he could take him on his own. It's too quiet in that empty house. Sam tracked Earl out to a set of suburbs under construction and he's sure they're tucked down in the basement but he can't hear anything below, not even when he lifts the tarps that sit over the unfinished windows and stands very still.

He begins texting Dean a countdown.

**five minutes and i'm going in.  
** four.  
three dean.  
two. 

It's Cas who gets there first.

They make him think they've surrounded the place and tell him to come out with his hands up. Sam bursts through the door to Earl scrambling to load a gun, knocks it out of his hand, and hauls him out to dump him in the dirt. Cas drags him away as Dean is blazing up the street and Sam doesn't know what else because he heads back inside.

He keeps his gun drawn descending into the house. There's the buzz of powerful lights blazing down in the basement. He follows the noise. Below him, at the foot of the steps, is a devil's trap bloodied with boot prints. "Crowley!" he shouts.

And what he hears in response is, " _No._ "

It's similar to how he found Crowley chained down in the bunker's dungeon but Earl didn't have anything except rope and extension cords. If a demon had been willing to bust out of that mess, he could have. But Crowley sits still on his knees.

"Sam," he looks up, roughened and bloodied. "Sam, bring him back."

"The hell are you talking about," Sam stashes his gun at his back once he knows the room is clear. He dives to Crowley's side and starts yanking at his binds. Fumbles at his hip for a knife and starts cutting them away faster.

Crowley tugs against it.

"Sam, you've gotta let him finish."

"What are you tal-"

"You have to let him finish it! You have to let him _fix_ me!"

Sam's hands fall from the frayed binds and he repeats, blankly, "What?"

"Let him do it. Let him finish it, Sam. He can fix me. He can finish the ritual that you didn't. He's got all the words. Let him do it. It'll make me-- it'll fix it. It'll finish me, _cure_ me, Sam," he pleads. Blood drips from his nose steadily, thopping to the concrete below him.

"No, Crow," Sam says, quiet, "Jesus, what the fuck, man?"

"You have to let him finish."

"Why would I--"

"You'll love me if I'm human."

Sam sits back on his heels. "Crowley. No. I can't--I. I don't want you to. You're not gonna do this for me, I love you _now_."

Crowley sinks. "Bullshit. You don't, you said you don't."

"That changed," Sam puts his hands on Crowley's face and draws him close. "Crow. I do love you. That changed. You don't have to do this."

"I can't follow you. When you die, when you're done. I can't go where you'll go."

"Then if that's what it comes to-- if fixing you kills me. If it does that much damage, then I'll fix you and you'll follow me, _then_. You don't have to do this. The demons, Crow, they don't always survive with this ritual. Other hunters have been screwing it up. I'm not taking that risk with you."

Crowley is at a loss. It was his plan, in the beginning, to get Sam better so that Sam could fix him up right, get rid of all the hell in him and make him feel better. Even when he wasn't sure that would get rid of all the awful things he always felt, the awful ways he was, he still thought it would happen someday. And then he just kind of stayed because Sam happened to him.

Sam does that to people.

And then he wanted Sam and even if Sam didn't love him, he _desired_ Crowley. Would fuck him and Crowley would kiss him like he would drown without it and Sam would be okay with that. Sam would let him touch him like he was any other lover, like he was human. Like he was half-good or good enough.

He thought he could live without Sam loving him back. He figured he was just new to the emotion and so it hurt more when it wasn't returned. But it got to hurting too bad. And Sam is going to grow older and Dean and Cas will follow each other to heaven.

He has to try. This is it. This can do it. The Winchesters hate everything that's not human and, clearly, love you when you go native. So he has to try. He could be human for Sam.

"It'll be fine, Sam," he insists, shifting on his sore knees. "It'll be better- _I'll_ be better. Your brother won't hate me as much and you can feel fine in your own home. Be safe with me. And Dean and Cas, they'll know it. They'll want this for you. _Please. Let me._ "

Sam shakes out of his pause. Shakes himself away from the idea. From that absolute crap. He finishes cutting away Crowley's bonds and tugs him, tries to bring him up.

"Sam. No."

Sam takes Crowley's face in his palms again and comes close, gets right in his face. "I _did_ fix you. You're _right here_ ready to die because you love me. Crow. That's change. That's not something Crowley, King of Hell would have done. Do you remember? You remember, Crowley? That you deserve to be loved?" he shakes him a little. It's not something Sam remembered in bed when Crowley was moaning it. Here, in the mirror of their time inside the church, he can remember every word of it. _Crow_ breaking out of _Crowley_. Not knowing what to confess but wanting to start. 

"Please trust me, Crowley. You are loved. _I love you._ We'll find a way." When Sam shakes loose one final cord, Crowley takes his hand and gives him his first kiss all over again: He brings Sam's knuckles to his lips and presses them there. This time, Sam shakes him off and pulls his head up, kisses his mouth.

**Author's Note:**

> This was written to the [Yeah Yeah Yeah's _Hysteric_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fqKjIquR5Bc).
> 
> 01/24/14: [SaunterVaguely](http://archiveofourown.org/users/SaunterVaguely/profile) made [SOME ART HOLY SHIT THERE IS NOW SOME SAM/CROWLEY ART](http://snewts.tumblr.com/post/74425350398) YES GOOD


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